


If

by tsthrace



Series: Raylla: Distinct but Connected [1]
Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fun Unit Banter, Not the happiest ending but also not the unhappiest ending, Witch Power Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27604562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsthrace/pseuds/tsthrace
Summary: It's been three years since the Witchbomb. Two years since The Spree were defeated. And less than a year since Scylla came back to Fort Salem with a cuff around her neck. Raelle sees her for the first time at a Beltane party, and all she wants to do is hate her...but that's not what happens.
Relationships: Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn
Series: Raylla: Distinct but Connected [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032195
Comments: 17
Kudos: 85





	If

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence: Porter never died. Presumed canon divergence: The Spree are defeated—not because that's my preference for season two but because that's what worked best for this one shot.

Raelle hated Beltane. It was alright the first year when she got to see Tally come alive into her body, into her witch’s power, but since then it had become a tedious exercise in heterosexuality for the cause. It was fine for the boy-lovers, probably even fun. And most of the other witches could find their flexibility, do their duty in dicking down with those insipid boy witches, wait the week or two to see if a baby witch was on its way. 

Though procreative activity wasn’t required at Beltane, partaking in one’s own way was strongly encouraged. It was a time to gather power. Battles were planned for after Beltane. Insurgencies were put down after Beltane. The Spree had been defeated after Beltane.

Raelle wasn’t particularly patriotic, and she really didn’t like being told what to do. She preferred to gather her power in her own time.

But here she was, at another pre-Beltane party at the Brass’s House, sipping bourbon and listening to Tally chirp like a sweet bird. She still _loved_ Beltane.

“Do you think he was looking at me?” Tally said, her eyes following a boy with night brown skin as he drifted across the room, her dimples framing a curious smile.

“Tally, they’re _all_ looking at you.” Raelle replied flatly. But there was a smile in her voice. It was true. Tally's brief time as a biddy had aged her a few years, carving her body into a sharper version, still soft but so strong. Witches orbited her like planets, especially at Beltane. She’d learned her lesson after Gerit that first year and learned to taste more of the menu.

“If I didn’t love you so much, I’d fucking kill you.” Abigail leaned over and glanced up at Tally. “Even the girls are circling.”

“Alas, girls aren’t for me,” Tally said, the regret in her voice real. “I tried last year.”

“You can have her leftovers.” Raelle smirked.

“Fuck you,” Abigail replied with her own playful smirk. “This night is still mine.” She sipped the clear liquid in her small glass. “This month is still mine.”

“Atta girl.” Raelle took another sip and felt it burn down her throat. 

“Are you just going to sulk like you do every year?” Abigail turned towards Raelle. “They’re looking at you, too, you know.”

“They’re looking at all of us.” Heroes of the Altai Mountains. Raelle tried not to roll her eyes. “And I’m not sulking, I just don’t get why we need to make a big deal about all this every single year.”

“Beltane is about our tradition, our history, our power.” Abigail was about to get self-righteous. Raelle could hear the shiny edge on her voice.

“Spare me, please.” Raelle cut her off before she could dive into her harnessing the earth’s power for witch glory spiel.

“Can’t you just have fun?” Tally didn’t look at her when she asked. Her face was glowing as she absorbed every sweet glance and flirty grin that came her way.

Raelle didn’t know why, but her eyes swung to the door a moment before it opened, catching bright blue when the notorious necro walked through. She bit her lip as a pulse of tight anger pounded through her. She tipped her head back and swallowed the rest of her bourbon in one hot gulp.

“I could try.”

* * *

Porter had insisted they go.

“We shouldn’t be so monogamous,” he’d said. “Especially for Beltane. It doesn’t look good.”

Scylla wasn’t one of those _rarae aves_ who insisted on monogamy, but she’d been trying to lay low after the Spree ordeal. Coupling with Porter gave her easy cover. He was pliable, compliant, easy to manage. Except for tonight.

“You can’t stay in hiding forever,” Porter said.

“Yes, I can.” Scylla didn’t look at him when she responded. He was so annoying when he asserted himself.

“Babe.” He came over and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She swallowed. “I know it’s been hard coming back. But they wanted you here. They know you’re special. And you agreed.” He loosened his grip and spun her around gently. “We should make an appearance. Witch Father will be looking for me at these parties. They don’t bring us to Fort Salem to act like boring civilians in lifetime commitments.” 

Scylla itched at the cuff around her neck. Alder had put it on her, and only leadership could take it off, and they only took it off when she was in training under strict supervision. A condition of her reinstatement. For some reason it reminded her of…

“If Raelle’s there, I’ll take care of you.” 

Scylla’s jaw locked. “I can fucking hear your seed of transference.” She locked her eyes on his. “It’s supposed to be below the sound register. You still need some practice.” Her voice was a blade.

If Porter had a tail, it would have been between his legs. “I’m sorry.” He knew enough to back away. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did.” She let out a long breath, feeling the anger inside her go cold. She rubbed her eyes. “I don’t want to see any of them,” she said quietly. “The necros, they’ve gotten used to me. But everyone else...they hate me.”

“Fuck them, Scyl,” he said quietly but kept his distance. “If it weren’t for you, gods know—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” In a way, she’d betrayed both sides. 

Porter sighed. “You know Izadora will be looking for you at some of these things.” It was true. Necros had been exempt from Beltane activities for years until the witch shortage became urgent. Now it was all hands on deck. And now that she’d attached herself to Porter, they all knew boys weren’t off her menu. The Brass noticed these things. The more she was seen during Beltane festivities, the more they would leave her alone.

Scylla huffed. “Fine.”

* * *

Raelle’s gaze turned frigid and locked onto Scylla, whose blue eyes widened before she smoothed her face back to stone and looked away. She’d only seen Scylla in glimpses across Fort Salem since Alder had pardoned her and she’d come back at the beginning of the year. No one seemed to know the whole story, but everyone knew that Scylla had worked for the Spree. Only Raelle knew the depth of her deception.

She watched as Porter pulled her across the room. She almost felt sad for the boy—still devoted after everything Scylla had done to him. Raelle felt vindicated in his presence. Superior. But just before they slipped into the next room, she noticed the cuff around Scylla’s neck. It was smaller than the one she’d worn in the necro dungeon, but the black tourmaline stone at her throat served the same function. Raelle cringed despite herself then pushed the feeling away. _No,_ Raelle said to herself defiantly, remembered her conversation with Helen Graves. _She earned that cuff._ She felt the bourbon pull the corner of her lips into a bitter grin. 

“Whoa, where’d you go, psycho?” Abigail’s voice cut through the warm, angry haze. She followed Raelle’s eyes across the room. “Well look who’s back.” Abigail’s voice turned soft and warm. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” Raelle replied without looking at her. She brought her glass up to her lips, forgetting she’d just downed the rest of her drink. “Just need another drink.” She pushed herself off the wall and into the crowd of people.

“Don’t do anything stupid, shitbird,” Abigail called after her.

Raelle looked back at her. “I should be fine if you stay away.” She grinned. Abigail grinned back and lifted her glass. “Cheers.”

The Brass’s House was huge and dark, covered in oak and bronze. Usually, cadets were required to wear their dress blues at the house but during Beltane it was all about connecting to your essence, as Berryessa Tansey liked to say. For Abigail, that meant dress blues strategically unbuttoned. For Tally, it was a long wispy dress that grabbed at her curves with a slight breeze. And for Raelle, it was simply her combat training gear. The sleeveless shirts were comfortable and the pants worn and friendly—in other words, she didn’t give a fuck how she looked.

It didn’t matter, though. As she sauntered through the house towards the kitchen she felt eyes on her. Her Witchbomb fame preceded her, and her skills had only grown stronger since. She held the boys’ gazes until they were fully aware that they didn’t have a chance. She glanced at the girls with an apologetic smile. _Thanks, but…_ It wasn’t quite Tally’s gravity. Witches wanted to live in Tally’s glow, but they only wanted a piece of Raelle, something to take home as a souvenir. Raelle wasn’t interested in giving anyone any part of her.

The kitchen was crowded and loud. Glory Moffett was pouring shots into glasses at the end of outstretched witch boy arms. 

“A health to the acts of love and pleasure!” she shouted, and they all drank. Then all the boys held their glasses out for another.

Raelle rolled her eyes. She was not going in there, no matter how much she wanted more alcohol. She turned towards the wide stairs that led upstairs to the officer’s meeting rooms. Though no one ever said so, cadets knew the upper level was off limits unless by invitation. It’s where Alder gave her her first medal. She and Abigail had been the first boot campers in years to earn a medal. And where Alder was there was always whiskey. Good whiskey.

It was dark upstairs. Raelle moved towards the War Room where Alder and her generals managed conflicts and oversaw battles in every corner of the planet. Its giant oak door was carved with the runes of Méníshè. She slid her fingertips over them but quickly pulled back. She couldn’t tell if they were hot or sharp, but they clearly did not want to be touched. The bourbon glow kept her pressing forward, though, and she reached for the doorknob, half expecting a trespass sigil to knock her on her ass. But the metal was cool under her hand and turned easily.

It was even darker in the War Room. It was all wood and smelled like steel and rosemary. It smelled like Alder. Raelle’s teeth stung like she’d bit into a lemon. A warning. She could get away with a lot in War College since Altai, but she wanted to spend her hard-earned capital wisely. She paused. 

Yes, the whiskey seemed worth it.

A sideboard lined one wall, and its doors slid open silently as Raelle hunted for the officers’ liquor. Her eyes adjusted a bit, and she recognized quills and jars of ink, boxes of seed sounds, and what seemed like ceremonial knives—too soft in the handle and too shiny in the blade. Finally she spotted the glint of glass. 

Jackpot.

Raelle reached in and pulled out a bottle. Jack Daniels with a faded label. All she could make out was 1890. Fuck, she could get in a lot of trouble. 

She pulled off the cork.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” 

Raelle heart pounded, but she didn’t startle. Combat had taught her a thing or two. She knew that voice. She’d dreamed of a dozen seed sounds she’d use to erase that voice if she ever had to hear it again. But she didn’t sing. She didn’t even look. She just took a swig. “Neither are you.” The whiskey’s heat was magic, rolling smooth like lava through her. 

“Raelle…” Scylla’s voice trailed into nothing.

She thought she would rage if she heard that voice say her name again, but everything inside her went silent. 

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” Another swig. Raelle finally let her eyes move towards Scylla who stood stiffly in the doorway. She’d always looked a little uncomfortable in her dress blues. 

“Just a few things.”

“Why did you even come back?” Another swig. Raelle knew she should slow down.

“You know why.” Scylla’s voice was small.

“For Porter?” Raelle’s brief laugh burned like the whiskey. “You seem to be getting along well.” Raelle bit her lip. Was she jealous? Of Porter? She bit down hard. 

“He found me after...everything. He was there for me.”

“I guess Stockholm Syndrome is some people’s thing.” 

Scylla sighed. Her hand reached up to itch her neck.

“Nice cuff.” The words were crueller than the cuff itself, and Raelle knew it. Those two words told Scylla she was nothing, because a witch without a song was nothing. Raelle set the whiskey down. She knew she’d gone too far. Not too far for Scylla but for herself. She was slipping away from herself. Every inch of her body melted into the sadness her anger had been covering for so long. It flowed like a river through her, threatening to flood. She bit back the tears behind her eyes

Scylla nodded slowly and swallowed hard. “This was a mistake.” Her voice had nothing left in it. She turned to leave.

“Scyl.” Raelle called out. “Wait.”

* * *

Scylla stopped in the doorway. She knew that voice. The warmth and desolation of Raelle’s sadness. It had startled her those few years ago, when Raelle had let the anger fall to the floor, when she’d let Scylla see all of her, when she’d pulled her beyond her mission and into something else, something like the sky. Raelle’s door was open. Scylla held her breath.

“I’m sorry,” Raelle said quietly.

The words pulled Scylla down like a rip tide. Raelle was apologizing for telling the truth, for embodying the truth, for the clear ways she saw the world—which was to say that it wasn’t her apology to give. Raelle had always apologized for her sadness, and Scylla had always wanted to tell her that her sadness was the most truthful and beautiful thing about her. But the mission had always pulled her short, kept her silent, and the only truth she could ever give Raelle was with her body.

Scylla dared to glance up at Raelle whose eyes were gleaming in the darkness. The apology that lived in Scylla had started like a leaky faucet the moment she’d first seen Raelle laid bare, armor off, soft in her arms. The drip had been easy to ignore at first—she’d been taught to ignore the pull of her conscience. Revolutions were emotionally messy and morally ambivalent by nature, Willa had told her. Scylla now understood that Willa had been keeping her own apology at bay, convincing herself that the cause was more important than her own daughter. 

But the Mississippi River starts as a tiny trickle in the north of Chippewa Cession, and a leaky faucet left unchecked can destroy a home. 

The apology that had been living in Scylla—every misstep, every deception—now flooded through her, threatening to drown her, to erase all she’d known, true and untrue. Just like it had destroyed Willa. Scylla would have to tell Raelle someday.

 _I’m sorry_ , she still couldn’t say out loud. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Raelle,” she whispered instead. The tear that dropped to the floor was the only hint of the river she was holding back.

* * *

Raelle wanted her anger back, but her body took over instead. Suddenly, she was in the doorway where Scylla stood. One hand found its place at the small of Scylla’s back, the other wiping the tear off her cheek before moving to wrap around her neck. Raelle winced as she felt the cold leather of the cuff. The familiar slate and sage scent rolled through her—the only thing she wholly trusted about Scylla. It was enough for now. Her lips found Scylla’s and lingered there, still, for just a moment. She felt Scylla’s chest rise and fall like civilizations, each breath a question. 

Raelle pulled back and studied her face. Before, there’d always been a vague grin, mischief at the corners—just another mask Scylla wore, more insidious than the faces she stole because there was something real mixed in with the deception. Part of Scylla really meant it.

There was no hint of a grin now, and Scylla’s blue eyes glimmered in the dark, wide and pleading. That part was all that was left. It was the part Raelle couldn’t help but crave.

She pulled Scylla into her, her tongue reaching, her hands tugging at the buttons of the dress blues. Scylla went stiff for a second but almost as quickly melted into her, becoming soft in Raelle’s arms. She felt her tongue reach back tentatively, asking another question. Raelle answered, kissing her slowly, deeply, her chest glowing as she reacquainted herself with the textures of Scylla, with her taste that was always metallic and delicious. 

But something was wrong, muted—like a switch in Scylla was turned off, a spark gone. Raelle searched for it with her hands, reaching into the unbuttoned flap of Scylla’s uniform, brushing her hands over her belly, feeling goosebumps prick up as she moved. Scylla let out a quiet but urgent breath, pushing Raelle further on. Her fingers climbed the ladder of her ribs upwards reaching for the edge of a bra, a boundary, that didn’t come—a surprise that made Raelle gasp despite herself. Her fingertips traced the bottom curve of Scylla’s breast, her thumb brushing over a nipple as hard as a mountain peak. The spark she was searching for in Scylla flickered then flared in her own chest, setting fire to the rest of her. But part of Scylla still felt dark.

* * *

Scylla bit her lip hard, trying to memorize the feel of Raelle’s hands on her skin, trying to will her body into something deeper. It was a cruel feeling—the way her body sparked but didn’t catch, like trying to set fire to young wood, her heart reaching and pleading and her body denying.

She pulled at the cuff and the crystal at her throat. A witch without a song was no witch at all, barely tethered to the elements of this world, unable to access the current of energy and vitality that their kind can harness, that gives them their power. She used to feel herself flowing through Raelle’s veins, pumping through her heart, diffusing through her lungs, becoming her oxygen. She used to feel the heat of the anger that lived inside Raelle, and the swelling of her joy. But now she barely felt anything—only registering where hands and lips made contact. 

Raelle looked up at Scylla, her eyes gleaming in the dark, awash in the sharp light of rage. Scylla knew that look from every angle. She remembered when it had been locked and loaded and pointed at her. Not tonight. Tonight, that rage could set fire to all of Fort Salem.

Raelle stood, her eyes blazing. “I’m taking that fucking thing off.”

A wave of panic rushed through Scylla, pushing Scylla a step back from Raelle. “You can’t,” she said, swallowing hard. “I’ve tried.” She remembered the searing jolts that moved through her when she even reached for the back of the cuff. 

Raelle’s eyes went soft, and Scylla thought she could feel the echo of that softness move through her own veins, a softness she used to know so well. Raelle had found a way back in. But still, she felt so far away. Raelle smiled a tiny smile, and it changed the light in her eyes. “Healers take away pain,” she said, and she reached her hand to the back of the cuff. 

Scylla felt spine go rigid. 

“It’s okay,” Raelle whispered and moved her hand so that her fingers flowed through Scylla’s hair. “These hands can’t hurt you.” When Raelle kissed her, she felt it flow through her whole body, she could almost hear the tiny crack it made in the cuff’s power. Raelle stepped back, her eyes now asking permission.

Scylla took a deep breath. She looked around. She knew that Alder’s power coursed through the wood of this room, that the songs of a hundred generals built the walls of this house. 

“Yes,” she finally whispered. If Raelle could make a crack in their power in their own house…

* * *

Raelle felt suddenly sober, the whiskey whisking off her skin and dissolving into the air, the buzzing rage inside her distilling into a low hum until it melted away through the soles of her feet, back into the earth. It was her combat training. Healers learned how to push away distractions, clear their minds and bodies so that nothing remained, so that they could easily reach for the raw power around them.

She gently turned Scylla around and pushed her hair away so she could see the back of the cuff. Its two sides were pulled together by leather threads stitched in three X’s. Raelle squinted. They looked like they could be cut through with a sharp knife, but when she let her hand rest over them, she could feel the force of the crystal woven through the threads. It did something to her hand—didn’t numb it but made everything feel gray somehow. It was like all the joy that came near it was destroyed. No knife could cut those threads. She pulled her hand back and felt the rage start to boil up in her again. How could they do this to a witch?

She took another cleansing breath. She knew her anger could not help her here. Her War College instructors had shown her that. But they had not broken her of her mother's training, despite their best efforts. They called her words superstitious, but Raelle was starting to understand that they were seeds that they didn’t understand—and it made them afraid. 

She raised her hand to the three X’s again and let them rest in the void they created. She heard Scylla take in a quick breath.

“I’ve got you, Scyl.” She whispered. She leaned in, her other hand grabbing Scylla’s. She closed her eyes and took in one more deep breath. “Ask, and it shall be given you.” The words felt like home to her. “Seek, and you shall find.” Raelle used her breath to reach below her, like her teachers had shown, down through two stories, through the cement foundation and into the dirt. She reached for the seeds of things that had not yet been born, for the transformation waiting within them. 

She heard Scylla whimper distantly, felt a slight burn at the back of her own neck. _They can’t hurt the good that is in you_ , she heard a voice say. _Don’t be afraid._

“Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” She felt the seeds in the dirt slowly shrivel, their force moving upward and swirling through her. Raelle felt a strange lightness around her neck just as she heard a heavy thud on the floor.

* * *

It was off. Scylla knew what this freedom felt like, but only in the basement necro labs and occasionally in her field work. Izadora would sing the threads free so Scylla could complete her lessons, but then she would stand guard over her whenever the cuff was off, containing her power. There was no Izadora now. Now the sparks were catching.

She took a breath, almost afraid of what she might find when she turned around.

“Scylla.” Raelle’s voice was low and rich and beckoning. 

Scylla bit her lip and spun to face her. Raelle’s eyes had a salva glow, clear and utterly free. Scylla reached up and touched her throat. She tested out the seed of forgetting, a subvocal rumble at the bottom of the register. It had become her favorite seed sound since her parents were killed. The world seemed to flicker for a moment then fade. It worked. She could sing again. 

“Not that seed.” Raelle rushed in, wrapping her arms around her. “Don’t you want to remember this?” She leaned in and kissed the red line along the skin where Scylla’s chin met her neck, where the cuff edge had rubbed. “And this?” Raelle dropped to her knees and opened the flap of Scylla’s shirt to kiss her belly. 

A fire blazed through Scylla. She could feel the dust of bones in the earth below her, the sharp and acrid beauty of dying things spreading their vitality to the living. She’d learned to control that flow, to take only what she needed from the earth, but the cuff had stifled her for so long that her body had forgotten. The flames burned through her unchecked, and Raelle only provided more fuel. 

She pulled Raelle up and held her head with both hands, their faces inches apart, the air between their lips charged and crackling like the moment before a storm. The house itself seemed to shudder under the beckoning call of Scylla’s power, its ancient wood—the floorboards, the panels, the beams—longing for the life of all the trees they had once been, longing to once again find their expression in limbs and skin.

Everyone thought necros were all about death, but they were actually about finding life wherever they went, even in the most desolate places.

But Raelle was not desolate. When Scylla reached inside her, she felt the sweet, warm glow and flow of Raelle’s own power, light and lithe, ready to flow into the dead places of the world to bring life. Where Scylla took, Raelle gave.

It was a dance between them, it always had been, though now Scylla could feel that Raelle had learned so much since she’d been gone. She’d learned how to give without giving all of herself, and somehow that made Raelle even more powerful. Scylla could not have all of her, which made her want her that much more.

She pulled her in and kissed her deeply, her tongue crashing into Raelle’s, that taste and texture igniting the deepest parts of her, the parts of her she thought she’d lost when she’d learned the truth about Willa, when Izadora sang those threads into knots she’d thought were unbreakable. But Raelle had broken them. That cuff had been a wound, an abuse, and Raelle had sung her back to wholeness.

Scylla heard Raelle gasp with all that flowed between them. It made her smile. It made the very center of her pulse and spark. It made her wet. 

She needed Raelle against her, wrapped her arms around her and pushed her towards the huge wooden door covered in carved runes. Raelle cried out as her back made contact but didn’t stop reaching for Scylla with her mouth, her hands. Scylla inhaled a sharp and jagged breath as she pushed her thighs, breasts, and lips into Raelle’s. Then everything went bright white.

* * *

Scylla rolled through Raelle like a storm surge breaching the levees. She’d felt Scylla’s power before, back when they were both new and raw, but even then Scylla seemed to have an almost too careful control over her power, like she didn’t want anyone to know. But Raelle had always known. Even when Scylla could stifle the flood, Raelle had always been able to feel Scylla’s potential flowing through her like landmines. Or seeds. It had been exciting then, imagining what would happen if Scylla let herself go. 

Now she did not have to imagine. Raelle felt Scylla in her veins, filling her to her fingertips, sparking every cell inside her. It was all heat and glow. Scylla was not a flood but a fire. 

At first, the runes cut like blades into her back, their whispers sharp, cutting deeply into her. But then she realized they were exploring her, reaching for the life that was Scylla’s power intertwined with hers. It was like breathing—giving and taking from each other in a deep rhythm. She felt herself rocking to that rhythm, building towards a peak. It would have frightened her if it didn’t feel so good. Scylla pushing against one side of her, their bodies inhaling and exhaling into each other, the runes on the other side, drinking in the power they created. 

Raelle felt that power move through the door, the walls and beams, through all the wood of the Brass’s House. Suddenly, she felt the heartbeat of every person in the house—their longing, their worry, their desire. It’s what she felt when she healed, except then it was always just one other person, one body, one flow of thoughts, one lifeforce. All of her training—her mother’s, her instructors’ at Fort Salem—taught her to take that lifeforce in sips, to be slowly curious about their pain, their joy, their power, and to use what she found to make them whole again. 

But now it all came in wave after wave. Scylla’s fire opened her up, and she couldn’t control it. She wanted to drink every single person in, take every inch of them and give it back to them cleansed and renewed.

There was a deep rumble. Raelle couldn’t tell if it was her body or the house, but something shifted. She felt a fear wash over her, muscles wanting to run but going stiff, frozen, the lifeforce of every beating heart being pooled into the rhythm between her and Scylla. Tally’s joy, Abigail’s confidence, Porter’s gentleness all being drawn out, flowing through the wood and into the vastness growing within the two of them. Soon, they would drink up everything until nothing was left but Raelle and Scylla, infinite and unstoppable.

Raelle pushed Scylla away. The runes seemed to cry out as the connection broke, and they were blades again, this time cold and painful, driving Raelle off of them. She fell to the ground, her knees and palms hitting the floor hard.

“Raelle,” she heard Scylla’s voice say distantly. She looked up and Scylla was right over her. Raelle jerked away.

“Don’t touch me.” Raelle wasn’t angry. She was afraid. Her breath was suddenly shallow and shaky. Her body was limp. She swallowed hard, trying to find herself again. She pulled herself up, though she stayed on her knees.

“Raelle…” 

She already knew that Alder would be on her way over, could see her trailing biddies. What she and Scylla had done could have summoned storms, burst electric transformers, left warm-blooded mammals cold. 

“I didn’t mean to…” Scylla also seemed to be catching her breath. Her voice was so quiet.

“I know.” Raelle didn’t look up. “You should leave before Alder gets here. You have a lot more to lose.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Raelle finally looked up. “I need you to go.” She wanted her eyes to be steely and angry, but she knew they were soft and pleading.

Scylla looked down and nodded.

There were slow steps on the stairs. They both turned around. Tally and Abigail looked pale and weak in the darkness, but Abigail wasn’t so weak that she couldn’t throw a glare at Scylla. “What did you do to her?” she asked in a low voice.

Raelle shook her head slowly. She was so tired. “It’s fine,” she said. “Scylla was just leaving.”

Scylla let out a quick breath and turned towards the stairs. 

“Wait,” Raelle called out, her hand wrapping around the leather cuff. “You forgot this.”

Raelle would never forget Scylla’s face in that moment she turned around—that sadness and resignation. She took the cuff, her eyes lingering on Raelle for just a moment, until finally she turned and walked past Tally and Abigail down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I actually finished a Motherland fic! Thanks for taking the time to read my words.
> 
> If you made it this far and you liked what you read, please drop me kudos!  
> If you have feelings, let me know if the comments!
> 
> Or you can reblog [this post](https://tsthrace.tumblr.com/post/635046138668548097/i-wrote-a-motherland-thing-a-raylla-thing-scylla) on tumblr!
> 
> Big thanks to fellow Motherland fan and author [@holeybubushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holeybubushka/pseuds/holeybubushka) for reading this before it went up.


End file.
